


Get Sherlock

by rare_colours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ending Fix, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rare_colours/pseuds/rare_colours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an alternate, happy ending/sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/653136?view_full_work=true">A Study in [DATA EXPUNGED]</a>.</p><p>It is a brilliant work of art written by the lovely berlynn_wohl, and I have to say if you haven't read her fic, mine wouldn't make sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Study in [DATA EXPUNGED]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/653136) by [berlynn_wohl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl). 



> As I have said, this is the happy(er) ending I envisioned for [A Study in [DATA EXPUNGED]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/653136?view_full_work=true).
> 
> Without reading it, my fic will not make any sense whatsoever.
> 
> Also, it's fluffy.
> 
> Please kindly note that it was written on a whim and every mistake is mine to bear.  
> I still hope it's enjoyable tho!

It’s been more than a month since he’d been let out of his hospital room after his encounter with [SPC-1993](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1993), wherein he’d tried to amputate his own leg. He knew he’d lost several months of his memory, but it was still frustrating to have to endure the looks of profound pity the staff seemed to aim his way. A staff he was supposed to know, but could only name a few of the many.

Apparently, he’d gotten into a relationship with an SCP for god’s sake, a non-human entity that had shown up on security footage and pictures as a vague cloud of light, distorting its surroundings. According to everybody he’d asked, it had a brilliant mind and an arrogant demeanor, if the notes and records it entered were not edited by another.

John couldn’t imagine what would drive him to “fall spectacularly in love”, as the majority of security and science staff claimed he did, with a cloud of pure energy, but the looks alone he received after SCP-2218 was officially declared gone were driving him bonkers. Not to mention the sad sighs and even sadder comments Mike Stanford seemed to have in endless supply when around John, or even having to hear all those stories Mike tried to cheer the doctor up with about what exciting things SCP-2218 and John used to be up to. One of them being a round of **Cash or Ash** John played for a palmful of Telekill, with only SCP-2218 as backup. Pure insanity, that’s what it was. And something exciting, if anybody would ask for John’s opinion.

Either way, after months of this rather annoying torture John was very much in favour of the rather insane plan cooked up by a group of Level 5 scientists, who wished to recover SCP-2218 by means of [SCP-263](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-263) .

Besides, having to catch up on alarming amounts of mutation of humanoid creatures and coming to grips with certain personnel’s deceased status, not to mention being denied the promised, customary two weeks of leave, John was ready to jump into the Hungry Bag just to get a little bit of excitement in his life.

Of course, the scientists explained at length, John would have to be the lucky contestant this time. They had begun testing a few weeks back, starting with Class D personnel, but obviously having no idea about who or what SCP-2218 was, they got away with random objects. John had diligently pointed out that all thanks to the administered Class B retrograde amnesiac _he_ had no idea either, but then again, he wanted something exciting to happen to him anyway, so he had no room to complain. Therefore he did not kick up a big fuss.

He was aware, that according to previous logs, he had got away with that palmful of Telekill. Of course, those memories were gone, along with SCP-2218’s presence, but he was told they did it with just the two of them, without the customary plus one for backup. John didn’t know why they weren’t reprimanded for breaking protocol, but no logs showed that they did. Apparently, The Detective was a very special case at U-62. Still, since John was the one who wished strongest (according to the scientists leading this particular experiment) to recover SCP-2218 (he _really_ wanted to know about SCP-2218), he was destined to be the unlucky bugger sweating his way hopefully to victory.

Thus, John didn’t take much convincing, which meant hours of restless waiting on the scientists before they could begin with the procedure. Apparently, SCP-2218 was greatly missed for that brilliant mind it had possessed. John, having nothing better to do reread all the memos and messages, however meagre and abrupt they were, from The Detective, searching for a clue or reason he might have felt so strongly about it. Also, he was very curious how he’d managed to get a leg over with a cloud of energy.

Since John had gotten out of his small hospital room and caught the first clues about what he’d apparently lost, he’d studied every last security footage of SCP-2218 he could pull up, listened to the stories told by personnel he trusted, read through reports concerning it, pored over reports written by it. The thing sounded rather rude, but brilliant. John had to admit that even if he weren’t so involved and dying to meet The Detective again, he’d still be in favour of trying to reacquire it. It was the most innovative O-23 around, brilliant and resourceful, even if occasionally it made people cry. The thing wasn’t malignant or harmful, just abrupt and bloody rude. It also possessed, as John noticed, a quirky, sort of off-beat humour, not akin but rather superior to the gallows-humor of any O-23.

Therefore, while John really had no idea how he could have gotten into a relationship with a cloud of energy, he was, against all odds, rather intrigued and eager to meet SCP-2218.

***

The people are still cheering on TV, the smiling man working the crowd, but John is already thinking of SCP-2218, mind’s eye picturing the clearest image of the cloud he could find fixed in his brain. He has won, his blood singing in his veins, sweat stinging his eyes and a bead of it making its way down the small of his back, so now he wants his reward. He wants The Detective.

John closes his eyes, hands reaching out in a motion that seems most similar to catching a larger object, palms up, hands arm’s width apart. He even closes his eyes without noticing. He realizes this when he feels a sort of peculiar sensation akin to cold fog brushing against his skin and enveloping him.

His eyes snap open to see a man, young, looking to be in his early thirties, haggard but decidedly humanoid crouching in front of John’s outstretched palms. His face is angular, almost, but not quite handsome and is contorted in a sort of hungry, desperate awe. John can’t help but note the strange grey eyes and the dark, curly locks that are in a desperate need of a comb. The man looks worn out and shocked, tending towards delighted as he blinks slowly.

The next second John’s face is cradled by two huge, long-fingered hands and the same piercing grey eyes are boring holes into his skull even while it smiles at him with a sort of… pity?

“Oh John…” it says in a voice so deep it feels like his innards are resonating with it. Either that, or his body still remembers SCP-2218, and rather fondly at that.

Either way, the touch feels warm and soft as one of the large hands strokes over the scar on his temple where some rubbish has knocked him out cold during the attack of [Shy Guy](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-096) . It feels pleasant, the hand warm and smooth and solid, not at all like the fog’s wet, light touch, if he hadn’t imagined the fog after all. Or perhaps it was just how SCP-263 did business, John wouldn’t know. He doesn’t remember. The voice however sounds like all sorts of pleasant things John decides as he hears it again.

“You pulled me back!” The man purrs delightedly, just before John is being kissed within an inch of his life. It is a good kiss, all things considered. Very, very good. John returns it without thinking and is very happy to do so, his body wrapping around the peculiar man, desperate, like it is welcoming a long lost lover. John wouldn’t know. He recalls that SCP-2218 hasn’t been malignant, only sarcastic and cranky, not one to suffer fools gladly, but never harmful without a good reason. Now though, John can sort of understand why he would be swayed by this… thing. Being kissed by it is a unique, very pleasant experience.

The moment their lips part, one of those large hands drop, grabbing John’s hand and drags him up and away, and John has to jerk SCP-2218 back to get his cane before he falls ass over teakettle. When he turns back, SCP-2218 is regarding him with horror and surprise chasing each other on its face.

“A cane, John?” It asks with its smooth, soft baritone and John has to clear his throat twice before he can answer. He shifts the tablet to rest strategically in front of his hips, because well, John is really rather unsure of everything at the moment.

“I had an unfortunate accident with [SCP-1993](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1993) . Nearly cut my leg off. It’s getting better though. I won’t even need the cane in a few months, if I’m lucky.” He knows he is babbling, but he can’t stop himself. Having the undivided attention of SCP-2218 seems to be sucking every word and thought right out into the air between them. The look the man gives his bad leg is intense, it feels like it could easily see through John’s clothes, like it is examining the scar tissue right this moment. John can’t stop a shiver.

“Let’s hope so.” The man nods and sets a more sedate pace, staring at John from the corner of his eye. He is holding the doctor’s hand and leads him, decidedly not dragging him at all, through the door out into the observation room where a gaggle of scientists are already awaiting them eagerly.

John is pushed aside as they begin poking and prodding SCP-2218, taking pictures with various lenses, checking to see what’s missing and asking SCP-2218 why it has lost a certain amount of its mass.

SCP-2218 apparently does not know the answer, but suffers the procedures with a minimal amount of sarcastic comments. John, sitting on a chair in a corner is always in its line of sight and John himself is unable to look away. For the life of him he can’t put his finger on it, why he is reluctant to part with the strange creature. The doctors have told him any skill he has learned will not be purged by the Class B retrograde amnesiac, but he is not certain this is all muscle memory. Still, his whole body is drawn to The Detective, so he stays, refusing to leave when he is offered a chance to. Several times, in fact. The need to have the man, the creature alone in his quarters and wrangle answers out of it… or just have it on his small bed is growing.

Eventually, John’s presence is being spotted by more and more scientists as they are picking up and storing equipment around the room and it is maybe half an hour more until the experiments peter to a stop and SCP-2218, Sherlock, is handed over to him with a “He’s all yours now, Watson!” and a clap on his shoulder. In minutes the room clears and the creature ambles over, raking him with a decidedly interested look.

John, who has long since calmed down from the high he’d experienced during his fun of **Cash or Ash** is back in business again, and all from a single look from this peculiar creature. He grabs the long-fingered hand he is offered and lets the man pull him up and away, out of the lab and into John’s quarters.

A while back John has been granted entrance to SCP-2218’s quarters. He is not surprised the creature prefers John’s to that barren cell. It is still as The Detective left it, most of the scientists had never given up hope to see the creature again. There is only a single picture, a Polaroid stuck to one of the walls, left there even after the disappearance of SCP-2218. It’s of John. It was the first time John had felt the weight of the loss of their relationship. Now though, that he has the thing all to himself, he plans on getting all of his questions answered.

The creature, however, has other plans. They are barely inside his small quarters, the door just snapping closed next to John's ear and SCP-2218 already has John pushed up against the nearest wall, crowding John, pressing all those lovely, angular panes of its body against John’s.

“We had a plan, John. You shouldn’t have stayed for me. By now you’d be free! I don’t know what happened after [Shy Guy](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-096) got loose” here, he palms the thin, uneven line of the scar on John’s temple, “but it’ll be harder to escape now. They’ll have me under constant surveillance, a tighter one than before. Maybe if I can find a harmless way to explain why I disappeared, they will stop, but there is no guarantee. It is standard procedure, after all.

John, bewildered, spits out the first thing his buzzing mind can offer. “They said a big chunk of plaster hit me during [Shy Guy](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-096)’s attack. I woke up in a hospital room, the same one I had after that thing with [SCP-1993](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1993).

 ~~Sherlock~~ SCP-2218 nuzzles his temple and drops a kiss on his scar, but John’s mind is wholly distracted. Escape. They planned to escape. But SCP-2218 wasn’t dangerous, in fact it… he reveled in experimenting and observing other SCPs. Then why?

“Will we attempt to do it again?” John prompts in the end, muttering it into the aubergine shirt’s collar SCP-2218 is wearing.

“Of course we will John, don’t be an idiot. I promised you I’ll get you out of this gruesome place, and I will. This was only one attempt. Admittedly, it didn’t work out just as I predicted, but there are always variables one cannot control. Next time will be perfect.”

John feels a vague sort of awe, and a sudden, crippling loss for the amount of memories they’d purged out of his brain. He knows it was the only way to save his life, so he can be with this brilliant, seductive and apparently amorous creature again, but he still misses everything he’d lost. For an insane moment he wishes he wrote a diary or left a note.

John is so immersed in his thoughts he doesn’t notice at first that ~~the creature~~ the man has stopped trying to get closer and is instead fixing him with a look that seems to go through John’s very soul.

“Something’s wrong.” The Detective says, staring at John’s face with a frown.

John knows he has to own up. He just doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know what will happen if he does. He doesn’t want The Detective to draw back from him at all. Being the sole focus of it has been a heady feeling he doesn’t think he wants to let go of. Still relationships cannot be built on lies. Not this kind.

“I told you I had a run in with [SCP-1993](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1993), right?” He tries to gauge if Sherlock is familiar with the object, but only gets a wave clearly meant to say get on with it, so he does. “Well, I was the first one to get cured of it. Class D personnel were simply euthanized, but I was more important so they did everything to save me. In the end they had to administer a Class B retrograde amnesiac.”

The look on Sherlock’s face hurts. John has seldom seen such pure, unadulterated expression of sorrow on anybody. And then The Detective begins to cry.

John is feeling utterly bereft. He has no idea what the standard procedure is to comfort a lover one doesn’t remember anymore, but apparently, some part of him does because his hand, without John consciously coming to a decision, reaches up, tangles itself in the unruly locks and drags it down to rest on John’s shoulder. His other hand goes around the bony back (and he notes that whatever the ball of energy feeds on it needs more of) and pulls Sherlock close. He turns his head to nuzzle an ear and to clarify “I told you I don’t remember memories, but any skill or muscle memory I acquired or learned I still have. And my body is drawn to you. I couldn’t keep away from you if I tried. And I’ve been driven crazy by all those looks and comments I’ve been getting from the staff. Whatever we had was brilliant, and I want it again.”

The man in his arms gives a wet chuckle at that. “John.” He says and that one word is filled with such love and longing and adoration John feels utterly humbled. Apparently being the centre of someone’s world, this person’s world is the greatest high he’d experienced. His bloody cells are singing, telling him everything he needs to know, that he is safe and loved and the happiest he’d been in a long time.

“It’s all right then, isn’t it.” He says hesitantly, because as much as he knows he wants this crazy man in his life, he cannot speak for him.

The hands resting on his hip tug him closer. The voice, when it comes is shaky, but the words certain. “Of course it’s all right, John, don’t be daft. We just need a better plan.”


End file.
